


don't touch my stuff

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Loves Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: Peter’s dead. He’s literally dead. He doesn’t know how he can lie his way through this, but hell, he’s going to try. “Honest. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”Tony laughs again. It's frighteningly evil. And congested. “Kid, if you’re somehow not dead by the time you get back, I may just kill you myself.”“You wouldn’t.”“Oh, just watch me.”orPeter decides to take an old Iron Man suit out for a spin. Naturally, Tony finds out.
Relationships: Friday & Peter Parker, Friday & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 277





	don't touch my stuff

“Mister Stark?” Peter calls, walking into––what seems to be––an empty workshop. He’s light on his feet, careful not to make too much noise while the older man recovers from a nasty cold that has riddled him useless. So far, he’s been out for three days and counting. A lousy three days.

Oddly enough, Peter’s been going out of his way just to contract the damn thing. His textbook immune system makes it impossible to miss a single day of school, and he’s _t_ _ired_. He just wants to sleep on the couch and eat nothing but toast while he watches _Cartoon Network_ for several hours _._ Sure, he knows he could lie and pretend he has a sore tummy, but his unrelenting guilt would eat him up within the first hour. He would easily come clean before May could leave the house.

The workshop is a perfect reflection of how his mentor handles having an illness. A coffee stain the size of New York sits idle on his desk, and half-used boxes of tissues are littered across the room. DUM-E is currently in the process of cleaning up the discarded, crumpled-up tissues that have been there since the first wretched day.

One thing Peter wouldn’t have guessed about Tony is that he’s a complainer when he’s sick. Peter doesn’t understand why he––a sixteen-year-old with bigger problems like homework and _acne_ ––is left to take care of him. The man can’t go twenty minutes without groaning and moaning about his stuffed sinuses. Peter can’t stand it. 

_“Hello, Peter,”_ FRIDAY greets _. “Boss is upstairs sleeping. Would you like me to alert him that you’ve arrived? I’ll be careful not to wake him too abruptly. We both know how he gets.”_

Peter laughs and fidgets with a few stray tools on a nearby workbench. A lot of their old work has been left untouched since they last got together. Since they were both healthy and able to talk like normal people. Now, Tony’s been hopped up on NyQuil for three days straight.

“Um––nah, I’ll just hang out here for a while,” Peter says and smiles over at DUM-E. The robotic arm whirs back gleefully. “What’s his temp today, Fri?”

_“99.8 degrees Fahrenheit,”_ she answers.

“Oh, good.” Peter crosses the room. “That just means he can finally get off his ass soon and help me for once.

_“He’ll probably still be congested for about another week or two.”_

Peter groans, head falling back as he trudges the floor. “I don’t think I can last another day,” he says. “Please don’t tell him I said this––it’s gonna sound really mean––but, _God_ , he’s such a _baby_. I used to think _I_ was bad when I got sick.”

_“Believe me, Peter, no one can be as bad as him,”_ the AI affirms.

Peter settles down at Tony’s desk and shuffles through the stray papers on top. Letters, fan art, more letters, more fan art… Peter pouts. He wishes he could get fan art.

“He’d just tell me to suck it up, probably,” he mumbles, brain still on the topic of his mentor’s ailments. “I’d have t’suck it up and 'spidey up'––as he calls it, and then I’d pass out on the job, and he’d be all ‘ _Why are you on the floor? Why didn’t you just tell me you were sick, Peter?’_ and ‘ _Why didn’t you stay home and have your lovely aunt make you a nice pot of soup?’_ And then I’d be forced into saying that he told me so, when really, he didn’t. Like, at all.”

_“Sounds like something he would do.”_

Peter’s lips quirk into a small smile. He likes FRIDAY––he likes her sassy moments, and as much as he loves Karen, sometimes he needs that shift back down to earth. He also needs someone else that will poke fun at Tony when everyone else is afraid to.

“It _is_ something he would do,” says Peter. “I twisted my ankle once, and he was like, _‘Well, that’s dumb, why would you do that?’—_ like I had a choice in the matter. Sometimes he just really—”

Before Peter can finish his thought, one of the monitors above Tony’s desk flashes. The word “Complete” blinks in bright green.

“Complete?” Peter sits forward. “What did I complete? Did I win something? I didn’t touch anything, did I?”

_“You didn’t,_ ” says FRIDAY. _“The Mark Forty-Five has just received a new paint job.”_

“Oh, cool.” Peter nods and, a beat later, states, “wait, but he doesn’t use that one anymore.”

_“Boss likes to maintain a certain… look.”_

Peter’s brows knot together as he thinks. Long and hard. And what he eventually thinks up turns out to be a terrible, _terrible_ idea. A good terrible idea. “Interesting. Is—is that suit _here_?”

_“Yes.”_

“Do you think Mister Stark would notice if I took it out for a little spin?”

_“I don’t even think the Boss can touch his toes,"_ the AI replies. There’s hardly an inflection in her tone.

Peter hums. A familiar excitement bubbles in his chest. Sure, he’s thought about asking to wear the suit a million and one different times, but the idea of doing without Tony even _knowing––_ Peter has never jumped out of his seat so fast. If Tony ever finds out, Peter is toast. But he won’t. Just a brief flight. Nothing could go wrong.

“You won’t tattle on me, right, Fri?” he asks.

_“Of course not.”_

“Knew I could count on you.” Peter smiles, but it falters as he stops in his tracks. “Wait––this is stupid. I’m stupid. Aren’t the suits coded to him?”

_“Yes, but he has them coded to you, too.”_

“What? Really?”

_“He has them coded to all of his loved ones.”_

Peter blinks. He blinks again. “S-say that again?”

_“Boss has given his loved ones access to his suits in the case of immediate mortal danger,”_ she says. _“That includes you.”_

“Quit pullin’ my leg, Fri,” Peter half-chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Just tell me I can’t use the suit.”

_“I’m not pulling your leg.”_

He rubs at his forehead and lets out a breath.

_“Your body language suggests that you’re nervous.”_

“Yeah, yeah, well––” Peter squints his eyes shut. “I mean, it’s Mister Stark. What if––what if he finds out? My head’ll be served for breakfast. A-and then he’ll take away Spider-Man, and Fri, I don’t know if I can––”

_“Are you going to let fear dictate your life, Peter?”_

His eyebrows raise at the question. Holy shit. He’s never heard FRIDAY speak so philosophically before. And she called him _scared_. He’s not scared––he’s just spending a little extra time making sure it’s the right decision, of course.

“No,” he mumbles, biting as his lip. “I don’t wanna do that.” Around him, provocative prototypes and unfinished creations await his final verdict. The bare bones of a gauntlet scream his name on a table to his right. Peter nods. “Okay. _Okay_. I’m doing it. Fri–– _oh shit, I’ve always wanted to say this_ ––all right, let’s take this outside.”

* * *

Tony is in the middle of dreaming about fighting an army of robot dogs when FRIDAY’s voice intervenes. He awakes in a daze, torso slumped to the floor while his bottom half remains comfortably on the couch. There’s a tissue stuck to his hand, another flat on his t-shirt, and the pressure in his sinuses goes right back up to his head once he sits up.

“Oh, Jesus,” he groans out, clutching his forehead as he leans over his knees. “Wh-what is it? I was just fighting robotic French Bulldogs––and losing.”

_“Peter Parker has asked me not to tell you that he’s taken the Mark Forty-Five out for a flight,”_ the AI replies.

Tony winces. Mark XLV. _Gosh_ , he hasn’t used that one since Sokovia. It did a helluva fine job, but the memory makes him shudder. He’s successfully not thought about that battle since _at least_ last week, and while it’s not as fresh as some of the others, the reminder still leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Mister Parker doesn’t even know the half of what–– _wait a minute._

“Hold up. Say that again.”

_“I’ve been told not to tell you that Peter Parker is out in the Mark Forty-Five suit.”_

Tony sits up, and his sinuses flare once again. He doesn’t even react. “M-my Peter? Peter Parker?”

_“Yes, boss.”_

It takes a few seconds for Tony to stand, meanwhile, he clutches the sides of the couch to keep from passing out. He’s not sure if it’s possible, but he thinks he might have an iron deficiency. And, somehow, Peter Parker has everything to do with it. The stacks of homework, the near-death situations, the constant stress he’s put the poor billionaire under… there’s no question about it.

“And he asked you _not_ to tell me?”

_“Yes, boss.”_

Tony lets out a breath. “Not sure _where_ exactly your loyalty lies, but I’ll take it. What’s he––why is he––? Oh, I’m gonna kill him. Run me the live audio. Where is he?”

FRIDAY doesn’t answer. Instead, the Mark XVL’s live feed is fed through her operating system. The living space of the compound fills with static, wind, and the familiar, all-too-cheery, soon-to-be-dead-as-a-doornail voice of Peter Parker.

_“All righty then, Fri––”_

Tony furrows his eyebrows. That’s _his_ nickname for FRIDAY. Son of a bitch.

_“––let’s see what this baby can do––oh, shit!”_

As the harsh sound of rattling, crackling, and somehow, _buzzing_ , echo throughout the room, Tony rolls his eyes. He’s never been given the chance to forget how young the kid is.

_“Okay, okay, I didn’t like that,”_ Peter says. _“Let’s not do that again. Jesus, how does Mister Stark not get motion sick?”_

“Cut the feed,” Tony urges. He isn’t sure how to handle his anger. He keeps it contained in his chest while his fingers claw at the couch cushions below him. The rest of his anger resides in his jaw. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m literally gonna kill him. Get me a suit.”

_“Boss, your temperature has climbed to––”_

“I don’t care,” he says. “Don’t fuckin’ care. I need a suit. I need t’keep my kid from killing himself before I kill him.”

* * *

_“Incoming call from Tony Stark.”_

“W-what?” Peter sputters. “No, no! Fri, don’t answer.”

_“Declining call from Tony Stark.”_

“Holy shit, thank you.”

Peter has learned three things since he left the compound as Iron Man nearly ten minutes ago. One, he’s not great with changes in altitude. Like, at all. Two, the suit is _massively_ uncomfortable. He’s not sure how Tony can manage more than a half-hour without feeling claustrophobic. And three, Peter has never felt so cool in his entire _life._

Ever since he can remember, he’s looked up to Iron Man. The hero has always been untouchable––almost unreal––prior to Germany back in ‘16. Granted, Peter has been a kid for that entire time, and kids think everything that breathes is awesome and larger than life. But with Iron Man, it’s been different. Iron Man has been an emotional crutch, something he could always trust. And now, _he’s in the suit_.

Peter can’t wait to tell Ned.

But––why did Tony call him?

“I think we’ve had enough fun for today,” Peter says, chuckling nervously as he figures out how to stop flying.

_“Setting a course back to the compound,_ ” FRIDAY states. “Do you want me to alert Tony that you’re on your way back?”

“What? No!” Peter’s heart jumps while he takes off soaring in the opposite direction. He’s tired, and he’s flown into too many trees. And he thinks he might have knocked a bird out of its nest earlier in the flight. “Shit, wait––does that mean he knows? Is that why he called me?”

_“Your personal phone is not connected to the Mark Forty-Five’s heads-up display,”_ she replies.

“Oh,” Peter whispers. After that, he finally registers what she meant. “ _Oh_. Oh no. Th-that means he called himself. He called the suit. I’m dead. I’m dead meat.”

_“Incoming call from––”_

“Don’t answer.”

_“Override.”_

“Parker.” It’s Tony.

Peter flinches, eyes screwing shut as he holds in a breath. “Hey, Mister Stark.” He exhales shakily.

“ _Hey, Mister Stark_ , yeah, okay––” Tony chuckles, but it’s not genuine. Not in the slightest. Even the soundwaves in the HUD look menacing. “Where have you been?”

“I’m out,” Peter answers, "on a stroll.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

He’s dead. He’s literally dead. He doesn’t know how he can lie his way through this, but hell, he’s going to try. “Honest. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Tony laughs again. It’s frighteningly evil. And congested. “Kid, if you’re somehow not dead by the time you get back, I may just kill you myself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, just watch me.”

Peter’s skin crawls at the sound of Tony’s voice. He’s _dead_. “Mister Stark, I’m––”

“Get your ass back here,” Tony says. “Now. We’ll talk then. FRIDAY, take him home. Turn off manual control.”

_“Yes, boss.”_

Before Peter can interject, the call cuts off and the heads-up display returns back to normal. His eyes well up, and his throat clenches as he tries to breathe through––what feels like––a straw. Under his breath, he mutters, “traitor,” but FRIDAY doesn’t answer.

* * *

Peter’s landing is rough, and it’s almost comical for Tony to watch. But nothing is funny to him, not right now. It was one thing when Rhodey took the suit some-odd years ago––it was Rhodey, a full-grown adult––yet Tony’s stomach twists at the sight of Peter under that faceplate. There’s anger, and then there’s something that many people know as heartbreak. Tony just doesn’t want to admit he is possible of feeling that type of thing. Peter has broken his heart more times than he can count.

“Mister Stark, I’m so––” Peter tries, eyes wide as the suit peels away from around him. He’s startled by the action.

“Nah, I don’t think you get the chance to speak first,” Tony says. He adorns a suit himself––spanking new nanotech that, surprisingly, feels comfortable. Like a second skin. “Did you even _think_ about your actions, or did you just assume that it was a good idea?”

Peter shakes his head a few times. “No, no. I-I did think. I––”

“Yeah, clearly, you didn’t!” Tony waves his arms, and they drop back down to his sides. “Newsflash, kid. That suit costs more than yours _tripled_. If you had even scratched a finger––”

“I would’ve fixed it, Mister Stark,” Peter replies without a beat. “I would have repaired it myself. You taught me how. I wouldn’t have––”

“How did you expect me to react to this?”

Peter’s shoulders slump. “I didn’t think you’d find out,” he mutters.

Tony wants to laugh again. So _this_ is what being a parent feels like. May deserves more credit than he’s given her. “If you think you’re such an ‘Iron Man’ expert, then you should’ve just made your own damn suit.”

Peter’s gaze drops. He accepts blow after blow without question.

But Tony, well, he just gave himself an idea.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted your own suit, kiddo?” he asks, feeling his anger slowly diminish by the second. And meanwhile, ideas of a possible “Iron Spider” fill his head.

“I-I––” Peter hugs his arms. “I dunno.”

Tony ponders. His excitement to tinker suddenly outweighs any irritation he once had. Of course, he’s still _mad_ , but seeing the kid look so discouraged and defeated makes Tony’s heart do something _weird_. Maybe he does see the kid as _his_ kid.

“All right, well,” he begins, lips twisting while he nods toward the compound, “get inside. Maybe we’ll brainstorm while we talk about how grounded you’re gonna be for the next ten years.”

Relief floods over Peter, and he chuckles. Together, they make their way back inside. The Mark XLV follows.

“Why are you in a suit?” Peter asks after a few seconds.

“Oh, yeah, forgot about that,” Tony mumbles, tapping at the unit on his chest before the nanites trickle back into it. He sniffs, and suddenly he can feel the ache of his sinuses once again. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know if I was gonna have to chase after you or scrape you out of some crater you created because you fell five-hundred feet.”

“I actually think I did pretty okay.”

“Kid,” Tony says, laughing, “I saw you fly in. You definitely almost killed someone.”

Peter huffs and folds his arms. “Well, Fri said I was doing great for a first-timer.”

_“Fri_ ––since you insist on calling her that now––is a liar,” Tony replies. “And she definitely likes you too much. I think you’ve become her favorite.”

When he looks over, Peter is smiling.

“What?” asks Tony.

“Nothing.” Peter shrugs. “Just that you made her, and somehow, I managed to become her favorite. S’all.”

“Shut up.” Tony elbows the kid, and it pushes him back a few feet.

“ _Hey!”_

“That’s what you get,” Tony mocks. “Next time, don’t touch my stuff.”


End file.
